


After Hours

by DoraTLG



Category: Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Anal Sex, Choking, Light BDSM, Light Bondage, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rough Sex, Sub Q, Workplace Sex, dom Bond
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-14
Updated: 2014-10-14
Packaged: 2018-02-21 04:03:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2454026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoraTLG/pseuds/DoraTLG
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The MI6 building was silent. Absolutely, peacefully silent. They may tell you stories about places that never go to sleep, and everyone expects MI6 headquarters to be one of them, with late night ops and emergencies, but the truth is, clock is employees' best friend. Of course, mostly there are people staying the night, since there is always day somewhere else on the planet, but today – tonight – there was no one.</p><p>Well, not „no one“ no one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	After Hours

**Author's Note:**

> So Ben, our Qteapie Ben, has birthday today! And how do I honor him? I write porn. Yop, that's right, I'll go to hell. Well, let's just hope he has nothing against it. This peace goes to Renata, who had the original idea of Q being tied to a copier and who is rotting in her job and needs some smut. And to you all that are in work and need something to keep them sane.

The MI6 building was silent. Absolutely, peacefully silent. They may tell you stories about places that never go to sleep, and everyone expects MI6 headquarters to be one of them, with late night ops and emergencies, but the truth is, clock is employees' best friend. Of course, mostly there are people staying the night, since there is always day somewhere else on the planet, but today – tonight – there was no one.

Well, not „no one“ no one.

One room in this magnificent building had dim lights on – few lamps in cubicles were switched on – and a weird noise was cutting the silence. An observant listener would recognize it as the copier, turned on and working, and something else – grunts and moans. And if we had this listener, he would probably come closer to the printer and see something that would put most of the staff working here into shock.

James Bond, famous agent and one of the oldest targets for automatic rifles was, fully dressed, pounding into his Quartermaster, whose throat was going to be sore the next morning, judging by the sounds he was producing. His body slammed into the copier with every Bond's thrust. His hands were tied up tightly behind his back with his own slim tie, together and to the copier so he couldn't leave if he wanted. He had his head thrown back and sliding on the top of the machine. His clothes were ragged, his cardigan lying on the floor, shirt open and revealing his sweating chest and hard nipples, red from Bond's biting, and bite marks covering every inch of his torso and stomach. His trousers were trapping his ankles behind Bond's back and his moans were louder with every second.

Bond's right hand left Q's hip and grasped his slender white neck into a dead grip. He pinned him into the copier, cut off his air and silenced him – now all Q could do was pant with his mouth gaping, but his effort never helped his lungs. Bond sped up his thrusts, torturing Q's prostate, and he was pleased to see Q's eyes watering – soon tears were flowing down his cheeks. His cock was so hard it hurt, only occasionally rubbing against Bond's shirt, but they both knew it's enough. Q was slowly suffocating. And then Bond came and Q's world exploded in his own orgasm.

Bond dimly remembered to let him breath when he came down from his heights, and stepped away to button his trousers. Q breathed in, but his body collapsed and slid down from the copier, his hands awkwardly twisting when his cum filled butt met the carpeted floor. Bond let him be for now and went around the machine to retrieve about a hundred papers that were still printing – the little display said there was another hundred and thirty copies waiting to be printed, so he quickly deleted the order and turned the thing off. The copies already made were harmless – of course someone will be confused as of what does a hundred or so action reports doing on their desk, but that was really not his problem. He dropped them in the nearest cubicle and came back to his Quartermaster.

He untied him and helped him up, then dressed him, and kissed him.

„Happy birthday, Q,“ he said and Q smiled lazily. They walked out, Q a bit unsteadily, and headed home.


End file.
